Child of Mine
by Akukama
Summary: AU - Peter Pettigrew does a good thing - and wreaks havoc on the This story believes the children are our future; at the moment, the future says, "Woogoo."
1. Good Things About Rats

**Good Things About Rats**

One day, Peter Pettigrew became a rat.

Before that day, a rather pleasant and sunny one in his fifth year at Hogwarts, he'd been a friend, a student, and a son. He was nearly the best in his year in Care of Magical Creatures – _the _best, Professor Kettleburn said, if he'd only turn in all his homework. He was bubbly Bertha Jorkins' secret admirer. He was a genius at talking his way out of detentions. He was a closet _Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle_ fanatic.

From that day on, though, he was a rat.

His friends defined him by it. Sirius never missed an opportunity to yelp, "Oh, rats!" when Peter dropped a book or stubbed his toe. James hassled him almost nonstop about having the only non-majestic animal form of the group. Remus patted him comfortingly on the back each time he saw Mrs. Norris. All Peter's roles in the subsequent years' pranks involved squeezing into small spaces. Peter Pettigrew was, first and foremost, a rat.

So, when James told Lily the truth behind the Marauders' nicknames, and she looked at Peter with an expression appropriate for unpleasant chores, and said, "A rat?" in much the same way she might have said, "A Death Eater?" – Peter was miffed.

A couple days later, he came to Godric's Hollow to help the Potters move in, with a lovely, bulleted list titled "Good Things About Rats". Clearing his throat loudly, he brandished it over Lily's head.

"Peter, your handwriting is tiny!" she exclaimed. "How can you read that?"

Sirius, in the process of riding a levitating sofa into the room, smirked. "Rodent-size." He jumped gracefully off the couch and sent it zooming toward the wall Lily pointed at.

"Careful! You'll dent the wall!"

"Yes," he said, in mock-tragic tones, "because magic is powerless against _dents._" Lily tossed the candlestick she was unpacking at him. Sirius caught it.

Peter cleared his throat again. "I'm serious, guys. Don't say it, Padfoot," he added, as Sirius opened his mouth to make a bad pun. "Rats don't get enough credit." Sirius stretched out across the sofa and made a show of paying attention. Lily remained standing, but looked attentively in Peter's direction.

"Rats," he began, "are survivors. They can swim, they can climb, they can run, they can eat just about anything. They can even fit through a hole the size of a Knut. Rats have been around for ages. They can live in a city just as well as in a forest.

"Rats are friendly and clever. They make excellent pets and can easily learn complicated tricks. Rats are some of the animals who behave most like people. They are creative, social, and more intelligent than dogs." Peter stopped to smirk at Sirius Black. Sirius raised his eyebrows, but kept listening. Peter continued.

"Rats are brave and loyal," he stated, with more feeling than he'd intended. "Rats will fight to the death if they have to, even against animals ten times their size. Rats fiercely defend their pups and the pups of their friends. A rat nest is only abandoned when its very last protector is dead."

Peter realized he'd been holding the list in the air with a clenched fist. He lowered his arm, trying not to feel foolish. He waited for Lily to scoff, for Sirius to make another joke. Instead, both of them, along with James, who had entered the room sometime during the tirade, wrapped their friend in an enormous hug.

_Rats are survivors. Rats are friendly and clever. Rats are brave and loyal. Brave and loyal._

Peter Pettigrew was proud to be a rat.

* * *

Nearly three years later, Peter Pettigrew, the brave and loyal rat, sat in that same sofa with his head in his hands and high, cold laughter ringing in his ears. He'd come straight to Godric's Hollow from his third meeting with Lord Voldemort. He'd narrowly escaped taking the Dark Mark, talked his way out of yet another tight spot, but he couldn't escape the gleam of red eyes and the scream of the Muggle man unlucky enough to pick the wrong forest to hike in. He couldn't forget the serpentine face of the Dark Lord or the hiss of his cloak on the ground. He couldn't forget the pictures in the rat book he'd bought to help him with his list. White rats in the coils of pet pythons, still struggling. _Snakes eat rats. Eat them alive._

A few feet away, a playpen gate rattled. Peter snapped his head up, pulled his wand out – and relaxed. He'd been so caught up in his anxiety that he'd forgotten about Harry Potter.

"Woo dadadada," the infant commented. One year old, with green eyes that seemed to take up half his face, the boy had started crawling just as he developed a fascination with the family cat's tail. For the sake of the cat, Lily had bought a giant playpen enchanted to spread out through the entire house. This resulted in the rather strange-looking stretching railings, but allowed Harry to move from room to room at will.

Peter stood up, strode over to the pen, and picked up Harry. "Hey, pup," he whispered. In reply, Harry reached out a tiny hand and grabbed Peter's nose. Peter smiled.

"I'll be deeding dat, pup," he wheezed. Harry let go, giggling. He laid his head against Peter's shoulder and closed his eyes. Peter sat in silence for two minutes that felt like two years. He stared at Harry's head to avoid thinking of the Prewett brothers, dead because of his information. It didn't work. Peter hadn't been brave enough to resist the Dark Lord. He hadn't been loyal to Fabian and Gideon, to the Order. He'd told Voldemort everything. If tonight's charm went as planned, it would be James' and Lily's lives in his hands. Peter didn't think he'd be any stronger for them than for the Prewetts. Than for Marlene McKinnon's parents, who would almost certainly be dead by the end of the week, now that he'd betrayed them.

He ought to do the right thing. He ought to tell Dumbledore what he'd done. He ought to kill himself. Peter knew perfectly well he didn't have the guts for either. He would become Secret-Keeper and betray his best friends and hate himself the whole time. Harry stirred in his sleep, and Peter flinched as though the baby had hit him.

_Rats are brave and loyal. Rats defend their pups and the pups of their friends._ Unless, by some miracle, he could avoid the Dark Lord, Peter would soon be turning over Harry and his parents, just like the Prewetts, just like the McKinnons. He felt utterly sick. _Brave and loyal. _James Potter burst through the sitting room door with his wand outstretched, then lowered it as he recognized Peter._ Rats are brave and loyal._

"Wormtail? I didn't hear you come in and I couldn't find Harry and –" He broke off, caught his breath, and continued. "How long have you been here?" Peter didn't answer. _Brave and loyal._ James sat down beside him, and lowered his voice. "Are you ready, then? Secret-Keeper?" Still no answer. "You're sure you want to do this, Wormy?" James asked, taking his son from Peter's arms. _The pups of their friends. Rats are brave and loyal._

Peter Pettigrew stood up jerkily. He paced back and forth across the room a few times. James watched him quietly, nervously. Harry slept on.

"I'm sure, Prongs. But – but I think it would be safer if – if I stayed with you and Lily." Peter stopped in front of the Potters, clasping and unclasping his fingers compulsively. He let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for years. _Rats are brave and loyal. _"Just in case."


	2. The Care and Keeping of Young Muggles

((Aku: Oh, by the way... I don't own Harry Potter. In case you thought I did, I apologize. If I were J.K. Rowling in disguise, this wouldn't be fanfiction.))

* * *

**The Care and Keeping of Young Muggles**

_Congratulations, Dumbledore, _Severus Snape thought drily. _You've successfully forced your morals on me. Muggle-baiting now makes me sick._

He had not, thank heavens, actually vomited. But he had come close. Today's escapade, led by the Lestranges, had been messier than usual. The other Death Eaters thought nothing of leaving the Muggles' slashed and shredded corpses on their well-kept Winchester lawns. Snape, therefore, had the privilege of staying behind to clean everything up. He wasn't entirely sure why he was bothering. These two couples could easily have been stabbed by other Muggles. Gruesome as this scene was, it didn't put the Wizarding World's secrecy in danger. And so, as he dragged the first two bloody bodies into their home and set fire to the lot, he blamed Albus Dumbledore.

It wasn't as though he was ungrateful. The Potters had been hiding for over a year now; Lily was safe. Dumbledore had kept his promise. So, Snape was keeping his. He was spying for the Order of the Phoenix, passing along important information, and – he shuddered – teaching Potions to brainless children. But he was doing it all as angrily as possible. He had mastered the art of saving lives _sarcastically._ Still, Dumbledore's beliefs were rubbing off on him.

Snape set the last two Muggles down. He raised his wand, thought _Incendio!_ and turned to leave, when a voice from upstairs called, "Mama?" Snape scrunched up his eyes, sighed, and ran back into the flames. He grabbed the little girl's arm and Disapparated.

* * *

"Nose!" the thing cried, pointing.

"Yes, that is my nose," snapped Snape, jerking his head away. He'd much preferred it when she'd been too scared to talk to him. Seething, he picked the child up, holding her as far away from him as possible, and snarled, "What is your name?" She burst into tears, and Snape set her down so quickly he practically threw her to the floor. After a moment, he tried a new strategy.

"Legilimens!" he hissed, fixing his eyes on the girl's and pointing his wand at her heart. He squinted, black eyes burning with intensity, as he attempted to delve into the child's mind. The Muggle girl persisted in thinking about plastic dinosaur toys. After a few seconds, she reached out and grabbed Snape's wand. He yelped and jerked it away from her. "Stay! Stay there!" he barked, pointing to her, before sweeping out of the room. He cursed a few times and muttered about children and Muggles and people without any thoughts to interpret, before regaining his composure. He stood with his back to the door and attempted to think.

What, exactly, should one do with a young Muggle? He stubbornly refused to give her to Dumbledore. Just because Snape had saved a baby didn't mean anybody had to know about it. Certainly not _that _anybody. Lily would know what to do if she were – Snape decided not to finish that thought. But then again, he didn't have to. Lily wasn't the only young mother he knew.

He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and strode into the sitting room. The Muggle girl had pulled an old and fragile book from the shelf, and was flipping the pages, humming to herself. She looked up as she heard the door open.

"Read book?" she asked, quietly, holding it out to him.

Snape strode over, snatched the book, smoothed it out, and replaced it on the shelf, before hissing, "No! No book." He clenched and unclenched his hands. "Absolutely not." The child resumed her humming. Snape picked her up again, cringing.

"Light!" she announced, pointing at the ceiling lamp as she was carried from the house. She nudged Snape's shoulder. "See light?"

Through gritted teeth, he answered, "Yes, I see the light."

* * *

"Light!" she cried again, this time pointing to a window of Malfoy Manor.

"No. Dark," Snape corrected her. The little Muggle fell silent, not sure what to make of this. Snape rapped on the door. A woman opened it. The pair stepped inside. The door closed. The woman made to speak, but Snape held up a hand and she fell silent. She motioned him into a luxurious drawing room. The girl looked around, wide-eyed, but Snape merely sat down in a very ornate chair. For a while, the woman and girl peered at each other mutely, as Severus Snape examined the back of his hand indifferently. A house-elf slunk into the room, causing the child's eyes to grow even wider.

"Something to drink, Severus?" the woman asked, her pale eyes still fixed on the girl's brown ones. Snape shook his head.

"Drink," peeped the little girl, causing the house-elf to look up sharply at her.

The pale woman gazed even more intensely at the child, before saying, "Orange juice, Dobby. And nettle tea. Two cups." Dobby bowed low and crept out of the room.

Both adults now turned to look at each other. The girl's exclamation seemed to have convinced Narcissa Malfoy that she was really there. She spoke first.

"You have a child with you," she supplied uselessly.

"So it seems," Snape drawled. "I'm rather hoping you can tell me what to do with it."

"It?" Narcissa asked sharply. She made a small gesture, and Snape put the infant on the floor and pushed her toward Narcissa. She stood there, uncertain, illuminated by the firelight, and Snape examined her for the first time.

The girl was about the size of a house-elf, with round brown eyes and a button nose. Her thick brown hair was in twin buns on top of her head, giving the overall impression of a bear cub. She wore a pale blue dress and shoes with pictures of smiling frogs on them.

"It – she," he quickly corrected, "won't tell me anything. And Legilimency won't work on her."

At this, Narcissa burst out laughing. "You – you tried – well, of course, you tried Legilimency. Oh, Severus, only you…" Instead of responding to this, Snape suddenly became very interested in the back of his hand again. Once enough time had passed for both adults to return to a fairly neutral mental state, Narcissa spoke. "So, where did you find her? What parents would be foolish enough to let you look after their daughter?" She seemed to have contained the previous moment's laughter in her eyes, which were practically glowing with mirth.

Snape paused for a moment, trying to decide how much to tell her. "She's an orphan," he finally said. Narcissa frowned and ran a thin hand through her hair. She sat down gracefully on the floor next to the child and smiled at her.

"Hello, there," she said, her voice suddenly warm and airy. "What's your name, darling?"

The child mumbled something. Narcissa tilted her head to one side. "Erminey," the girl repeated. Narcissa slowly reached out and plucked the tag from the girl's dress. She pursed her lips and scrutinized it, then tossed it aside.

"Can you pick up your foot for me?" she asked gently, extending a hand. The little girl obliged, and Narcissa glanced at the sole of her shoe. "The other one?" This time, Narcissa smiled and looked up at Snape. "Her name is Hermione," she announced. Snape blinked in surprise. That wasn't a Muggle name, was it?

Narcissa didn't seem to think so either. "Is she a Meadowes?" she inquired. "That's a family name, isn't it?"

"Perhaps," replied Snape. "I don't know." It didn't seem at all likely that this child was a witch, let alone a pureblood, but it was certainly convenient.

Narcissa appeared to take this as a confirmation. She smiled warmly at the girl. "And how old are you, Hermione?"

"Two?" Hermione offered, looking anxious. She was watching Narcissa as though waiting for confirmation that she'd given the right answer.

"Ooh, just like Draco, Severus!" Snape did not seem to share her excitement. He was staring off into the distance. Dobby returned with the drinks. Hermione, encouraged by Narcissa's friendliness, ran up to him and pointed at him, giggling.

"Juice for the young mistress?" the house-elf squeaked, picking up the cup of orange juice.

"Juice!" agreed Hermione. "Give juice," she added, imperiously. Narcissa grinned. Snape groaned. Hermione slurped her juice. In its own dysfunctional way, life went on.


	3. NOT A REAL CHAPTER

Howdy! So, this is an author's note, not an update, because I'm a terrible person. I just wanted to say that I honestly do intend to continue this story; I just have a lot of timeline issues to work out, it seems. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed!


	4. The Death Eaters' Wives' Club

**(Author's Note: **I bet you thought this was never going to be updated again. WELL, YOU WERE WRONG! This chapter (along with the next two) was written back in 2011 with the earlier ones, but I didn't post it because I realized I had some timeline issues to work out. *crickets chirp* Yeah, the timeline issues are still there. Sorry. I'll fix it later, maybe. For now, though, it seems rather unfair to deprive the people who apparently like this story of another few chapters, just because I'm self-conscious about the fact that Evan Rosier ought to be in Azkaban. Enjoy!)

* * *

**The Death Eaters' Wives' Club**

Chaos reigned.

A sturdy blond boy and a shrimpy brown-haired one were chasing each other around the room, laughing. A boy and girl with decidedly trollish looks to them were throwing their shoes at each other, while a long-haired boy of the same age looked at them over his coloring book. Two toddlers were taunting a little boy in a crib by waving a teddy bear out of his reach. A girl with long, curly hair was playing with dolls as a younger girl watched, enthralled. A pale, sharp-faced boy and his skinny friend were building moving towers of blocks. Parents lined the walls of the small room; three women with various shades of red hair gossiped over butterbeer; a pregnant woman complained to her petite friend, as their husbands bragged about their children; two couples animatedly swapped parenting tips; an intimidating man with a mustache grinned at the children's antics; and the pale-skinned hostess chattered away to an inattentive brunette, as her husband made tense small talk with an intense, dark-haired woman.

Into this frenzy, a tall, thin, sallow-skinned man walked – well, less walked than… progressed, eventually, down the stairs. Every few steps, Severus Snape turned around to coax a little girl to follow him. With trepidation, Hermione descended, two feet per step. When she reached the bottom, she clapped her hands triumphantly and beamed at Snape. He smiled back and ruffled her bushy hair. The child glanced around the room in wonder and looked uncertainly toward Snape for a moment, before scrambling off in the direction of the tower-building boys.

Snape turned around to see several of the adults gaping at him. His slight smile disappeared instantly. He mumbled something that sounded like, "Can't even go down the stairs by herself." He glanced desperately around the room, as though hoping to find a cold, dark, empty corner somewhere among the whirl of toys and children, then, finally, walked briskly over to the Malfoys.

"Ah, Severus!" cried Lucius Malfoy, somewhat manically. Neither he nor Snape seemed to move, but, within a second, Lucius and his conversation partner were stationed on either side of the greasy-haired man. "I'm ever so curious about this child you've picked up. No doubt, Bellatrix is as well!"

Bellatrix Lestrange did indeed look curious. Snape was reminded strongly of a lioness sizing up a herd of zebra. He and Bellatrix usually got on fairly well; they shared a fascination with the Dark Arts, a rather single-minded dedication to the task at hand, and a dislike of frivolity. Nothing Snape knew about her, however, suggested that this indicated any affection or high regard.

"Very much so, Lucius," Bellatrix said, looking haughtily at Snape. Even more than him, she seemed out of place in such a bright, festive place. "Who is she?"

Snape made a noncommittal noise and took his time stretching out his neck before answering. He got as far as "Well –" before Narcissa arrived on the scene, her brown-haired friend at her side. Viewed next to each other, Bellatrix and Narcissa did look like sisters. They had the same delicate cheekbones, slender nose, and long eyelashes, as well as the characteristic arrogance of all rich pureblood families. Beside Bellatrix, though, Narcissa looked faded. Her eyes were an icy blue; Bellatrix's were almost violet. Narcissa's hair was nearly the same color as her pale skin; the same skin tone clashed violently with Bellatrix's black hair. Narcissa was a Bellatrix whose color had washed off in the rain or faded in the sun. She was weathered, watered down.

Narcissa told everyone what Snape had told her about Hermione's origins – and filled in the gaps with her own assumptions. He didn't know where she'd gotten the idea that the child had been given to his care by a desperate, dying witch, or that she was the very image of Dorcas Meadowes, who, from what Severus could remember, had been stocky, black-haired, and gray-eyed.

"… Hermione Snape," finished Narcissa, and Snape's head snapped up. That made it sound as though he were going to _keep _the girl, and that certainly wasn't true. The whole point of bringing her here had been to find somebody willing to adopt her. She was not Hermione Snape, absolutely not. Not only did Snape want nothing to do with the toddler, she couldn't possibly want him as a parent. He didn't know what to feed her, didn't know what toys to buy her, didn't have the time to teach her basic skills. In the week she'd spent at Spinner's End, he hadn't even attempted to brush her hair. Besides, she was a Muggle, no matter what Narcissa Malfoy believed.

Meanwhile, Hermione had lost interest in the two tower-builders. She was now joining the blonde girl with the dolls. Snape watched out of the corner of his eye as the two children made cursory introductions.

"What's your name?" asked the blonde girl, momentarily setting aside the two dolls she was holding.

"Erminey," chirped the younger child. She pointed to the large dollhouse nearby – a small version of Malfoy Manor. "What's that?"

"House. House for dolls."

"Who you?"

The blonde answered, "Odette." She picked up the two dolls again. "This is Sabrina and Anna."

Hermione nodded happily. "Anna?" she asked, holding out a hand. Odette hesitated, but handed her the second doll.

"Going to get wands," added Odette. Hermione nodded. With characters and plot established, the two girls settled down to playing.

Snape realized suddenly that someone had been speaking to him. He turned his attention to a tall, pregnant woman standing beside him. "Hm?"

"Odette and Hermione seem to like each other," Hera Rosier repeated, jerking her sharp chin in the direction of the two girls. Snape nodded. "How old did you say she was?"

"Two."

Hera didn't seem to notice Snape's reluctance to converse, and continued to act as though his monosyllabic answers were enthusiastic speeches. "Ah, 'Dette turned three in February. I keep telling Evan – she needs to meet girls her own age. Right now, she only has Caroline," – she gestured to the chubby little girl watching Odette and Hermione – "and she's just one. Well, there's always Marietta Edgecombe, of course, but I haven't seen the Edgecombes in _ages_. Cathy's husband doesn't want her associating with supporters of the Dark Lord; it's absurd, really." Snape nodded again. He hoped he wouldn't be expected to contribute to the discussion in any more significant way. Luckily, Hera continued. "So, you really must keep bringing Hermione to these little gatherings, Severus. I think our girls will be great friends. Will they be in the same year at school, do you think? When is Hermione's birthday?"

Snape made a noise that sounded like "Erm."

"Well, of course, you don't know." Hera looked intently at Hermione and, drawing on what Snape could only assume was some seer-like power of mothers to read children like tea leaves, said, "She's on the older side of two, certainly. Early fall, perhaps?"

One nod blurred into the next until the party began to break up. Snape bid a sincere farewell to Honoria Goyle, who had taken Hera's place at some point, and went to retrieve Hermione. The Malfoys accompanied him to the door.

"Tell me if you have any questions, Severus. I know what to do with two-year-olds," Narcissa said, indicating her son, who was now watching a sort of deformed clay mouse he'd made, as it waddled around the room. Narcissa giggled. "Wouldn't it be cute if she and Draco ended up marrying each other?" Snape couldn't bring himself to even nod at this.

He left the manor, after one last "If you see Nisus, tell him I've got the… item… he mentioned" from Lucius. By the time he returned to Spinner's End, his exhausted charge was sleeping with her head on his shoulder. Unsure of how to move her to the nest-like basket of pillows serving as her bed without waking her, he finally gave up. With a grimace, he conjured up a rocking chair, and eased into it.

"I suppose you need a middle name," he said, for lack of a better topic. Hermione shifted position, pushing her head – and some of Snape's hair – to the back of the chair. "Ouch." He tugged it away. "If you have to be Hermione Snape," – and he scowled again – "at least you'll be Hermione Lily Snape."

They were still there when morning came.


	5. The Boy Who Lived

(Author's Note: Wizarding Britain, meet your savior! Yes, this will be explained. Yes, it will make sense. I promise.)

_Disclaimer: This chapter contains a _lot_ more direct lifting of Rowling's words than usual. This is not because I think I can get away with plagiarism; this is because this chapter is very obviously modeled off Chapter One of the first HP book. Just so you know._

* * *

**The Boy Who Lived**

Mr. Pitts of number five, Privet Drive, didn't know why he felt so unsettled. It had been a perfectly normal day – well, not _perfectly_ – there had been all those people in cloaks, after all, and Mrs. Pitts said she'd seen three owls fly through their backyard, three owls in broad daylight. Still, nothing too unusual. The owls had even been mentioned on the news, so it wasn't just her, and the cloaked lot had probably just been protesting something. Mr. Pitts had made a good business deal and Mrs. Pitts had made a good apple pie.

Mr. Pitts glanced suspiciously at the tabby cat sitting on the wall dividing number five and number three. He could have sworn it was the same cat that had been there that morning. It didn't look at him. Eventually, he forgot about his unease and went to sleep.

The cat was still there.

The cat was staring furiously at the lawn under the wall. It was nicely tended, utterly neat and entirely ordinary. In the very center, however, grew half a dandelion. The cat was watching it intently.

The cat only looked away when, one by one, the lights of Privet Drive were sucked away. In the darkness, the cat continued to stare at the spot the lights had fled to, until a gentle voice a few feet away said, "Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall." By that point, however, the cat was technically no longer looking at anything. Instead, a rather severe-looking woman with square glasses and an emerald cloak was gazing at the place Albus Dumbledore had been several seconds ago.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.  
"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here." Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no – even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Pitts' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent – I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for twelve years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors." She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was quite the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone –"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name. All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense – for eleven years, I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know – oh, all right, _Voldemort_, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too – well – noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?" It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer. "What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that, last night, Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are – are – that they're – dead." Dumbledore shook his head. Professor McGonagall closed her eyes and sighed in relief.

"Not exactly, no," said Dumbledore. "However," he added, before he could be asked anything else, "there is often a fragment of truth in rumor. Do go on."

The concern returned to Professor McGonagall's eyes and her voice trembled. "They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But – he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke – and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly, but held up a long-fingered hand. "Correct in all but the name, I'm afraid. Harry Potter is not the boy in question."

"But it's – it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy. It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Ha – did this child survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know." Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "We'd best leave now, or we'll be late to meet Hagrid. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places."

"Naturally," replied Dumbledore. "Not here, at least. It still may not be safe to speak openly." He glanced apprehensively at the invisible line dividing the dandelion. Then, indicating that Professor McGonagall should follow him, he strode over to the wall she'd spent the day sitting on. "Number four, Privet Drive, is here," he said conversationally, under his breath, and the two of them stepped into what had once been a house. Dumbledore turned to release the light in his Deluminator. Professor McGonagall gasped, seeing the ruins clearly for the first time.

"Here?" she asked quietly, her cheeks very pale. Dumbledore nodded. He selected a broken lamp from the rubble and held out one end to Professor McGonagall. Her fingers brushed the Portkey just in time to be deposited neatly in the middle of Godric's Hollow.

* * *

Harry Potter awoke to one of his favorite sounds.

"Uncle Pa'foot!" the toddler cried, over the rumble of the immense flying motorcycle settling outside the house. His mother and father rushed over, and his mother scooped him up into her arms.

"James, get Wormtail!" she hissed. "This could be it!" Harry saw that his mother looked upset, so he reached out and stroked her cheek with a tiny hand. Lily looked at him for a moment, surprised, before breaking out in what could have been tears, laughter, or both.

Soon, James and Peter joined them, and they stood, huddled together by the window, waiting for the signal to flee. The three adults jumped when someone knocked on the door behind them. "Uncle Pa'foot?" inquired Harry. Lily and Peter backed away from the door as James opened it. Lily covered her son's eyes – then quickly uncovered them, as Albus Dumbledore stepped inside.

"I think you should all follow me," he said calmly. James and Lily exchanged nervous looks as they crossed the threshold. Peter imagined he could feel the Fidelius Charm breaking. The three of them walked dutifully behind Dumbledore, down to where Minerva McGonagall was looking disapprovingly at a gigantic man carrying a small bundle of blankets. Behind the giant rested –

"Where's Sirius?" yelped James Potter. "That's his motorcycle! Where is he? Is he alright?" There was a shrillness to his voice, and he swung his head around, looking for his best friend.

"Sirius is fine, Potter. I'm jus' borrowin' the bike from him is all. He met me at the house, Professor Dumbledore, said he didn' mind me usin' it."

Dumbledore frowned, but merely asked, "No problems, were there, Hagrid?"

"No, sir – house was almost destroyed, but I got him out alright before the Muggles and Ministry folks started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol. Mind you," Hagrid added, "he was screamin' and thrashin' about the rest o' the time." Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, the Potters, and Peter bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of yellow-blond hair over his forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where –," whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground."

Throughout this exchange, Peter, James, and Lily stood, utterly mystified. Harry pointed at the sleeping toddler and said, "Who that?"

As though just realizing they were there, Dumbledore turned around swiftly. "That is your cousin Dudley."

"Not – Petunia's son?" Lily gasped. Dumbledore nodded.

"Well, give him here, Hagrid – we have quite a bit to discuss." Dumbledore took Dudley in his arms, staggering for a moment under the child's unexpected weight, and turned toward the Potters' house, gesturing to them to follow.

"Could I – could I say goodbye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Dudley and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, Dumbledore and the others set off toward the house, leaving Hagrid and Professor McGonagall blinking uncomfortably at each other.

"Well," said Professor McGonagall finally, "that's that. We may as well go and join the" – she sniffed disdainfully – "celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid, in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall." Wiping a tear on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar, it rose into the air and off into the night.

"Who names a kid _Dudley_?" sneered Peter Pettigrew, as he opened the door to the house. Dumbledore set the boy down on the floor of Harry's playpen, then made his way to the kitchen, where the Potters and Peter, confused and concerned, were waiting for an explanation. Dudley rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One pudgy hand closed on the plush rabbit beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be awoken in a few hours' time by little Harry dumping a bin of stuffed animals on his head. He couldn't know that, at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Dudley Dursley – the boy who lived!"


End file.
